Lullaby
by FantasticalnessGirl
Summary: Sherlock Holmes plays his son a lullaby...prepare for feels.


The boys of 221B Baker Street had just returned home after a long day of fun. John, Hamish and Sherlock had attended a professional football match, where Hamish even got the Keeper, David de Gea.

"Dad, look!" he had exclaimed, running back up to their seats and pointing to his shoulder. "Look! Hamish was 13 now, developing new interests and learning all sorts of spectacular things that John had forgotten about. As soon as they had gotten home, Hamish quickly stripped off the shirt and carefully folded it, taking care to make sure the signature wasn't exposed. "I'm going to go stash this somewhere safe," he said, bounding up the stairs to his room in an overjoyed state of mind.

Upstairs, there was a hallway with three doors. The one to the right was Hamish's bedroom, the one on the left was a bathroom, and the one at the end of the hall was the spare guest room. The teenager set the signed shirt on his pillow for the time being (until he had time to make the hollow in the wall behind his dresser bigger) then tugged on another one. He was just about to run back downstairs to his dads when something peculiar caught his eye.

The spare bedroom door was open, and it was usually always kept closed. Even more strangely, the corner of an easel (which neither he nor his parents owned) could be seen. Hamish took a tentative step closer, instinct telling him to stay quiet and not call out. As he moved closer, the sleeve of a gray suit came into view.

Had someone really broken into their flat to paint a picture?

Suddenly, the sleeve moved. Panic shot through Hamish's chest, and he frantically scrambled away from the door and down the steps. He heard the soft, _tip tap_ of shoes on the floor behind him, making the boy shoot down the stairs even faster. At the bottom of the stairway, Hamish took a chance and turned around, looking for the intruder.

He descended almost leisurely. A tall man with very dark, slicked back hair sauntered down the steps, taking in his surroundings with cold, muddy brownish-green eyes. Hamish backed away from him and towards the kitchen, never taking his eyes off of the man.

"Who…who are you?" Hamish whispered, proud that he had managed to keep the fear out of his voice.

The mysterious man's sharp, mirthless eyes snapped to him. "Oh, Hamish! Look at you, all grown up now," he said in a bored drawl laced with the tiniest bit of sarcasm. The teenager backed fully into the kitchen, where he knew his dads sat. A tinkle of broken china echoing off the walls signified that John had noticed the man.

"Moriarty," Hamish heard his father Sherlock growl with hatred. "Why are you here?"

The evil-looking man - Moriarty - spread his arms, mimicking a gesture of confusion. "Oh, I don't know…I just wanted to say hello to my old friends, Mr. Holmes and his trusty - er," (Moriarty glanced at John's left ring finger) "_partner_, Dr. Watson. And let's not forget little Hamie," he finished with a hint of a smirk.

Annoyed, Hamish scowled. "I'm not little. I'm thirteen."

Moriarty threw back his head and laughed, a sound that forcefully reminded the boy of a raven's caw. "Of course not, Hamie." He turned his attention to Sherlock, his smile and laughter gone. "I think you know why I'm here, dearie."

"Well you're going to be disappointed, because you aren't getting it," he snarled, pulling Hamish closer to him. Moriarty sighed.

"I really didn't want to have to do this, Sherlock dear," he said in a fake, sad voice. Quick as a flash, the villain whipped out a gun, pointed it at John, and fired.

It wasn't a conventional gun, though; it was a tranquilizer gun. John, caught by surprise, sunk slowly to the floor and immediately passed out. Moriarty pocketed the gun and cheerfully said, "Well, at least he's out of the way now!" His facial expressions turned cold and ruthless. "Now, Sherlock. Hand over the boy."

"No. You aren't taking Hamish," he said firmly.

"Dad, why does he want me?" the teenage boy asked Sherlock quietly. He didn't answer.

"Now Sherly dear, when I don't get what I want, I take it by force," Moriarty said, crossing his arms. "You don't want me doing that now, do you?"

"Just. You. Try," Hamish's dad hissed in a deathly calm voice.

"If you insist," the other man said with a faked exasperated sigh.

So he pulled three dangerously large knifes from a pocket inside his suit - the knives used for throwing in an attempt to kill - and raised his arm.

"DUCK!" Sherlock shouted, and Hamish hit the ground. A knife whizzed past his hair where his head was seconds ago. Looking behind him, Hamish saw his taller father dragging his other dad under the table so he was safe from the crossfire. The first knife Moriarty had thrown was buried up to the hilt in the wall behind him. Swallowing hard, Hamish scrambled back up and dove to the side as another knife was thrown his way. It was angled more downwards (probably for his stomach), so it stuck in the table behind him. The boy wrenched it out, now having some kind of weapon to defend himself with.

Sherlock was grappling with Moriarty, using a leg of the table to parry the attacks of the remaining knife in his enemy's hand. The detective was trying to get at the knife stuck in the wall, but also attempting to protect the limp John. Moriarty was doing the opposite - protecting the knife but trying to hurt the doctor.

Hamish knew how to throw a knife; his taller father had taught him when he was little. He knew he had to protect his dad. He lined up, ready to throw at Moriarty's side, but he stopped. There was so much movement from the two men; what if he hit Sherlock? Wait, there: a little pocket of opportunity. The villain was trying to push his dad against the fridge, forgetting about Hamish and exposing his back. Not thinking, just doing, Hamish raised his arm and threw.

The knife flew end over end, and the power was there, but he had released it too late. Instead of his back, Hamish's knife bit into Moriarty's calf. He roared in pain, releasing Sherlock but still managing to keep him at bay. With his teeth grit, he grabbed the front of the detective's shirt and threw him across the table, temporarily stunning him. The evil man yanked the knife from his calf and chucked it angrily at Hamish, who ducked again and avoided it. He turned his back (bad idea, really) to Moriarty and ran out of the kitchen towards the living room, planning to come around and surprise him. The second, unbloodied knife that the wounded man had been holding came soaring through the air where Hamish's temple had been half a second ago.

The teenage boy pressed his back to the wall, breathing hard. He heard no footsteps to indicate his attacker was following him, but there was no doubt in his mind that Moriarty had retrieved the third and final knife from the kitchen wall, no matter the severity of his injuries. Slowly, he crept around the corner, carefully…

Right into Moriarty's trap. The bloodthirsty man's eyes gleamed when he saw his target, and he lifted his arm to throw the last remaining knife. Terrified, Hamish turned around and ran into the living room, desperately trying to get around the corner.

But it was too late.

The silver arrow of a knife whistled through the air and embedded itself into Hamish's back.

Hamish screamed; the pain was too much. He fell to the floor, starting to cry.

"Toodle-oo, boys!" Moriarty cackled, then disappeared down the steps.

In a flash, Sherlock was there beside his son. "Shh, Hamish, shh, it's okay," he soothed, but even the well-practiced man couldn't keep the fear from his voice.

Hamish felt a thin, steady trickle of sticky blood running down his side. The wound was agonizing; wherever the knife touched on the inside of his body, flames erupted there, burning at a temperature Hamish couldn't bear. "Dad…Dad, it burns…it hurts…" Hamish's weak sobs mingled with his voice, now turned childish from the stinging.

"Shh, Hamish. It's going to be okay," Sherlock's voice shook as he continued. "I'm going to pull the knife out, okay?

"No, please…Dad, no…" Hamish pleaded, hot tears streaming down his face.

"Yes, Hamish, I'm sorry, it'll hurt, but -"

"No, Dad." The dying boy shifted just a little so he could see his father's face…

Just one more time.

"Daddy…" he said, using the term for Sherlock he hadn't used since he was five. "Daddy…I'm dying."

"No," his curly-haired father said, a tear rolling down his cheek. "No, Hamish, stay with me, you'll be fine,"

"Daddy…will you play me a lullaby?" Hamish's voice was getting weaker and weaker. He could already feel parts of his body slowing to a stop. "My favourite one…from when I was a kid?"

Wordlessly, Sherlock got up from his son's side and fetched his violin. He knelt by Hamish, silent sobs racking his body, and began to play.

A simple but pretty tune filled the flat. It danced in every corner, echoed off all the walls, chased away every unfriendly shadow. The boy smiled slightly; it was all he could muster. The throbbing in his back was drowned out by floods of memories. Nights of nightmares, of sad times being turned to happy ones. Memories of both his dads' telling him bedtime stories.

The lullaby was coming to an end. _Please…I just have to hold on until the end…_ Hamish thought.

As the last note rang out, Hamish exhaled one last time.

_I love you, Dad._

But Sherlock Holmes never got to hear his only son say it, because the four words were thought, not spoken.

I'd been two years.

Two years since Sherlock Holmes lulled his son to sleep forever.

John and Sherlock still lived in 221B, but it didn't seem like home anymore. Their days passed uneventfully. Cases - all of them, not just some anymore - were now boring. The detective didn't see a logical point to them anymore, but he kept taking them in hope that his interest would return. John was also still working to the Clinic, but it was only to bring in money now.

Sherlock returned home after another case. This one had been just as dull as the last; a murder (typical), with no visible wound. It was so obviously poison it hurt.

He'd say it was child's play, but somehow it was still too soon for that.

It was late; easily past midnight. Tired, the detective threw his coat over the arm of the couch and made his way up to the bedroom.

"John?" Sherlock called softly. No response. _Maybe he's sleeping,_ he thought. Carefully cracking the door open, the tall man poked his head into the room.

Instead of seeing the army doctor sleeping, he saw something far more terrifying.

John was kneeling in a puddle of moonlight in front of the open window, head bent. He was quietly sobbing, and his whole body was trembling. The moonlight made his greying blond hair a shimmering silver. But the worst part: he was holding a very real, very _loaded _gun to his temple.

"JOHN!"

And, without looking up:

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock…goodbye."

And he pulled the trigger.

Sherlock's cry of "NO!" was drowned out by the gunshot, and John fell, slumped sideways, blood leaking from his temple.

Dead.

The detective rushed forward and held his partner in his arms, crying.

"No, John, please…not you too…"

The living man buried his face into his friend's chest, shuddering and trying to memorize the scent. It would be, after all, the last time he ever truly smelled it. With hot tears streaming down his face, Sherlock looked down and saw the gun that had taken his friends life, but also one other detail. There was one other bullet inside.

_Of course._

Still holding the (ex) doctor close to him, Sherlock picked up the gun with surprisingly steady fingers. _I don't have to live like this anymore. Work has lost its fun, both of my loved ones are dead…_

"There is nothing left to live for," he finished aloud, holding the gun to his head.

One finger movement and one bang later, everything was over.

Sherlock Holmes was dead.


End file.
